As Long As You Need Me
by fhestia
Summary: The Doctor is ill and Clara wants to help but it's unfamiliar territory for both of them. Twelfth Doctor sickfic. Friendship and then a huge leap into Whouffaldi with some whump, a sick and cranky Doctor, a sick and cranky Clara and lots of fluff and domesticity. Xposted at AO3.
1. Chapter 1

"Nah, nothing exciting, just a quiet evening alone, me and a stack of student essays."

Clara Oswald keyed open the lock to her flat, mobile held between shoulder and ear.

"You too. See you in a few days."

She tossed her post and keys on the entry table and sighed as she ended the call. She looked around, not necessarily hoping to see the Doctor, but expecting it. She'd grown used to finding him in her flat, usually prowling around restlessly, keeping an eye on the neighborhood cat or devising new creative ways of brewing coffee, scattering half-empty cups everywhere and complaining loudly when she made him do the washing up. A little too domestic, perhaps, but still a part of her routine.

Clara shrugged off her jacket as she headed toward the sitting room, then froze when she spotted the familiar blue box, parked at an angle to the couch and blocking the window.

_Sod the student essays,_ she thought. Unable to keep a wide grin from her face, she pushed open the TARDIS door.

"Hello?" she called. "Doctor?"

The interior was dim and quiet. Maybe he'd popped out somewhere. She'd have a word with him about using her place as a parking garage when he returned.

Clara trailed one hand against the console as she circled the room, feeling a faint thrill at the thrum of the TARDIS under her fingers. She sensed that if she needed to, if she really needed to, she could fly it.

"Doctor?" She tried raising him once again before resigning herself to another boring evening of takeaway and marking. "Where are you?"

"Up here."

She approached the bottom of the stairs, looking toward the upper level, packed with bookcases and a leather wingback chair. He sat huddled, as best he could with such an angular and lanky frame, hands loosely clasped in his lap, head bowed.

"Are you okay?"

Clara seemed to ask it of him frequently because she still didn't know what "okay" looked like on this new Doctor. His posture and brooding silence tonight seemed to fall into"not okay" territory. An unfamiliar sensation, a cold knot of worry, rose in her chest.

"So, what's up?" She ascended a few steps, resisting the urge to rush to his side. "Haven't seen you for a while."

"I'm trying to think, Clara, hush."

"Well, that's nice," she said. Grouchy and snappish put them back within the realm of okay. Grouchy was a good sign. "And who parked his TARDIS in my flat? It's taking up half the room, you'd better have a good reason."

"It was a very good reason," he said, voice as rough as a gravel road and weighted with a sense of sorrow. "I needed your help with something, but now…." He trailed off, one shoulder lifting in a tired shrug.

Her own voice softened, hesitant as she replied. "Why do you sound so sad? Has something happened?"

"it's nothing, Clara," he said. "Just my nose. "

She laughed, relief flooding through her.

"Did you say your nose?" She stepped closer to where he sat, squinting in the dim light. His profile looked the same, still sharp and imposing as a raptor's. "Looks okay to me."

"It's not the look of it, it's the function," he said. "I used to have a keen sense of smell, and now..." He tried to take a deep breath but made a horrible squelching noise instead. "It's faulty. Can't smell a thing. Can't even smell you."

"I'm going to ignore that."

"And it's spreading The fault is spreading. It's affecting my brain, my brain hurts." His long fingers massaged his forehead and he coughed, wincing slightly. "And now my throat..."

"Mmm," she agreed. "You do sound a little hoarse now that you mention it."

"Everything's failing, Clara. I can feel it. And it's too soon."

"Yeah, might be. Or maybe you're coming down with something. "

"Ridiculous," he scoffed. "I don't get ill, you've known me long enough, you should know that. Why don't you know that?"

"Just a hunch? I don't know a lot about your physiology, but all the signs are there. I'm a teacher, I see colds and flu all the time. And with an older body..."

She hesitated, not certain she wanted to pursue her line of reasoning to the end.

"Go on."

"Well, uh, with an older body, you're probably more prone to aches and pains and illnesses now."

He ignored her, fixing her with an accusing stare, shivering and tucking his arms in closely to his body. "Why is it so cold in here, Clara? You must have bumped something on the console on your way in."

"I didn't touch anything."

"Of course you did, I was watching." He attempted to rise from his chair and failed, falling back heavily with a groan. "You're all alike, you humans," he said. "Clumsy, can't keep your hands to yourself. Now I'll have to fix it whether I feel like it or not."

Clara stepped closer, resting the back of her hand against his forehead. She squeaked in surprise when he leapt backward at her touch, eyes wide and startled.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Checking for fever," she said, frowning slightly. His skin felt normal under her fingertips "But you don't feel warm."

"Well, I wouldn't, would I?" He twisted himself away from her. "My core body temperature is 16 degrees. Yours is 37. So even if I were warm, which is ridiculous because I just told you I'm cold, I wouldn't feel warm to you. No, there's something wrong with the environmental system in here and if you didn't feel the need to continuously poke at everything….".

"Or," she said, interrupting his irritable tirade, "you're chilly because you're coming down with something."

She turned to face the rotor, feeling ridiculous, with no idea where to direct her request.

"Would you mind warming it up in here, please?" she asked, raising her voice. "He's not feeling well."

A mechanical clicking and a soft whirr reached Clara's ears, the ends of her hair lifting slightly as a warm breeze began to circulate and rise towards them.

"Better?" she asked.

"I'm not sure why she didn't do that for me in the first place." He lifted his eyes to hers, a troubled expression crossing his face briefly. "She doesn't like me as much now, not like she used to. But it seems no one does."

The Doctor slumped in his chair, sniffling and looking as much like a forlorn little boy as a weary old alien could. Clara reached toward him without conscious thought. The need to comfort came as naturally to her as breathing and she rested her hand gently on his head. This time he didn't pull away.

"Don't think about it now," she said. "As much as you hate to admit it, I think you are ill and maybe feeling a little sorry for yourself."

"No, Clara, it's so much worse than that." His features contorted suddenly with pain and he clutched the arms of the chair, hands whitening with the strength of his grip. "Something's...wrong," he managed to gasp out.

Clara went to her knees at the foot of the chair, heart hammering in her chest. Had he caught some kind of weird alien disease that didn't look like much on the outside but was killing him? And he couldn't regenerate now, she was just starting to like this version of him.

"Doctor, what can I do?" she asked, feeling helpless as she watched.

With his sudden sharp intake of breath, realization dawned on her. She dodged out of his way as he folded forward with a tremendous sneeze, ending with his hands covering his face, head resting on his knees. She bit her lip to keep from laughing into the ringing silence that followed.

"Clara," he said after a moment, his voice muffled. "Break it to me gently. How do I look?"

"You didn't regenerate," she said patiently.

"I"m sure I did," he said. "It was almost exactly like this last time. I wonder what the new face is like." She watched as his hands began a careful exploration and then stilled suddenly. "Oh, no. I think I may have damaged this nose, it's leaking."

"You didn't regenerate, Doctor, you sneezed. And I'm guessing you need a handkerchief."

"I don't think I have one," he said without lifting his head. "I can't remember. And my hands are occupied at the moment. Could you...?"

"Seriously?"

Clara sighed and rose to her feet, tugging at the edge of his jacket to pull it free. She gingerly reached inside the front pocket, pulling out each object she found and studying it before setting it aside.

"Spoon," she said.

"Be careful with that."

"Unsonic screwdriver," she continued, wondering where the sonic version had disappeared to. Next came a small leatherbound notebook and a well-nibbled pencil. Her fingers finally closed on a neatly folded handkerchief.

"Here," she said, stuffing it into his waiting hand. "Blow your nose. And don't ask me how. Figure it out for yourself."

She waited until he finally sat back with a tired sigh.

"You are a doctor, you know," she said, frustration pitching her voice higher than she would have liked . "I've watched you before, doing hair analysis, taking blood samples. And you honestly couldn't tell you were ill? You didn't know you sneezed? "

"How was I supposed to know?" he said. "I don't have a lot of experience with it personally. Everything about this feels so new to me." He twisted the handkerchief in his hands, a preoccupied frown on his face. "It's all new," he said softly. "Everything except this body. This old body."

"Don't be so hard on yourself." Clara's voice caught as she looked down at him, a sudden memory rising in her mind, her time in the town of Christmas, a similar chair, an aging Doctor.

_The same person_, she reminded herself.

She knew he wasn't young - on a human scale he was nearly timeless - but easy enough to delude herself when he wore a youthful face and carried himself with such energy. It was all new to her, too. Clara feigned nonchalance, looking away until she could compose herself.

When was the last time you ate anything?" she asked when she felt certain she could speak without her voice wobbling.

"This morning? Whenever that was," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Yesterday. I don't know. Why does it matter?"

"There's an old Earth saying, 'starve a cold, feed a fever,'" she said. "Or maybe it's the other way around. Regardless, if you're feeling poorly, you need a decent meal and a rest."

"I didn't come here for a meal and a rest, Clara, I came here because I needed your help. I just wish I could remember why."

"Well, it can wait. Whatever it is, dying world, imploding universe, ancient race on the verge of extinction, I don't care. It can wait."

"No, it can't. And if you won't help, I'll just have to leave without you." It seemed an empty threat to her. His voice was nothing more than a ruined croak at this point, eyes red-rimmed and beginning to droop with exhaustion.

"You're in no shape to go anywhere right now."

In an instant, the Doctor's icy demeanor returned, his back straightening as he rose from the chair. He brushed past her without a word.

"Oi, that wasn't a challenge!" she called after him, but he ignored her, stomping down the stairs toward the console.

She watched as he worked the controls instinctively and smoothly, but despite his sure touch. the TARDIS remained still and silent. He finally stopped, closing his eyes as he braced his hands against the console, wavering slightly where he stood.

"She's not cooperating." he said. He whirled quickly, staggering as another sneeze caught him off guard. "Maybe you can talk some sense into her."

"I'm not taking the TARDIS anywhere," Clara said, coming to stand by his side. "And neither are you."

She laced her fingers with his, the only contact he would occasionally allow without leaping away like a startled bunny. He stared down at their intertwined hands for a moment before he spoke.

"You know, I still think you're wrong," he said. "But giving you the benefit of the doubt, if I do have a cold or flu or the Abraxian Pox, it's probably not a good idea to get too close to me."

"Yeah, don't care," she said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Missed you a little bit."

He glanced quickly at her, lips quirking in a brief smile. "I could do with a quick cat nap, I think."

"You could," she agreed. "How about you come inside and I'll fix you something to eat first. Maybe some soup?"

Clara winced as soon as the words left her mouth and she didn't miss his sidelong look. Right. She wasn't the only one suddenly thinking of the Bank of Karabraxos.

"Not soup, then," she said quickly. "A curry. That'll clear your head."

She pulled him forward and he followed obediently, only hesitating at the threshold of the TARDIS.

"Won't your boyfriend object?" he said, his distaste obvious in both his voice and expression.

"Don't care about that right now, either," she said, giving the Doctor a gentle push into the room and closing the door behind them.


	2. Chapter 2

Clara followed the Doctor into her flat, one hand resting on his back as he stumbled along, shoulders slumped, his aura of invincibility slipping a little. He tossed his jacket over the arm of her couch, revealing the jumper she coveted, the one she was sorely tempted to nick when he wasn't looking. Boots came off next, kicked under an end table. Clara wondered at his attitude of ease in her place, as if it were as familiar to him as his TARDIS. He stopped suddenly while she was lost in thought and she nearly crashed into his back.

"Don't go any further," He spoke in a harsh whisper, holding out one hand in a warning gesture. "Something's gone wrong with the gravity in here. Can you feel it? I'm having trouble standing upright." He took a few staggering steps to the side, bracing himself against the corridor wall, holding on to it with one hand, reaching out for Clara with the other. "It's safer over here, more stable. Come on."

Clara summoned her most patient teacher's voice. "Doctor, there is nothing wrong with the gravity. I think you're feeling dizzy."

"Ridiculous." He spoke without opening his eyes. "Why would I feel dizzy? You need to get over this strange preoccupation you have with my health. I've never felt better in my life." He gripped Clara by the wrist. "Hang on, now the walls are moving."

He scooped her close with one arm, not loosening his grip on the wall. She felt perfectly content to stand there, protected from imaginary dangers, hands resting against his chest. She frowned as she became aware of the twin heartbeats under her fingertips, the normally regular rhythm too fast and erratic. Clara studied the Doctor's face. He kept his eyes tightly closed and a fine sheen of sweat beaded on his upper lip.

"I really think you should sit down," she said. "It's safer. Center of mass and all that."

He gave her an incredulous look. "You know nothing about physics, do you?"

"Nope. Still think you should sit down."

A sudden hard shudder shook him. "As long as this sitting place is warm, I won't argue too much."

"Kitchen, then," Clara said, stepping back and looping one arm through his. "I'll make coffee. A nice hot drink will warm you up."

"Gravity, Clara," he said, a note of alarm in his voice as they began walking. "Don't move too quickly."

"Right, well, maybe you'd better hang on to me then. I might fall and hurt myself."

"Yes, good thinking."

She encircled his waist with one arm and he leaned heavily against her, brow furrowed in concentration as they made their way along. Clara stole a glance at him. He looked paler than usual, his skin gone an unhealthy chalky color. She was seized with a sudden urge to tuck him into bed and let him sleep for a week.

"It's getting worse," he said. "The gravity is fluctuating the closer we get to your kitchen."

"Almost there," she said, hoping she sounded encouraging.

The Doctor braced himself against the doorframe as they entered the kitchen. "Everything's spinning in here," he said. "Can't you fix it? Make things stop moving around?" He gulped once and Clara moved quickly before he could pass out or be sick on her floor.

"Just sit," she said, easing him to the floor. "And put your head between your knees."

He looked to be all knees and elbows from his position under the counter. "I don't see how this will help anything, Clara."

She placed a hand on the nape of his neck and lowered his head, more roughly than she intended. "Shut up and stay down."

The kitchen remained blissfully silent while she filled the kettle and plugged it in and pulled the grinder from the cupboard.

"If you're still making coffee," he said quietly, "You can use those beans I left for you last time."

"The purple ones?" Clara paused in her preparations as she thought. "Yeah, could do, but they melted my press. Had to buy a new one. Out of teacher's wages, I might add."

"Melted it?" He blinked up at her. "A pity, wouldn't have minded trying a cup of that."

"Well, you're going to have to settle for boring, old-fashioned Earth coffee," she said. "Feeling better?"

"I feel exactly the same as before," he said impatiently. "But it seems everything in the kitchen is starting to calm down."

He rose to his feet with a groan, digging one hand into his lower back as he moved across the kitchen. He leaned across the sink and moved the blinds aside to peer out.

""Where is Maxwell?" he said. "Have you seen him recently?"

Clara filled two cups and placed one near him. "Maxwell?"

"The furry orange tabby? Hangs around the courtyard at times?"

"Do you mean Mr. Fluff?"

"I certainly do not mean Mr. Fluff," he said, taking a cup in both hands. "How ridiculous. His name is Maxwell. Does reconnaissance in the area for me."

Clara's mouth fell open and she forgot about stirring her coffee. "Mr. Fluff does?"

The Doctor nodded. "Very intelligent creature, speaks three languages. So, has he been around lately? It's been a while since he's filed a report."

"I usually hear him rummaging about at night," she said. "Wait a minute, you speak cat?"

"Of course I do, Clara, all eight dialects." He gave her a pitying look. "But Maxwell speaks Gallifreyan. No idea where he picked it up, but it does come in handy."

Clara shook her head. Her evening was growing progressively weirder every moment. "Well, I'll keep a special eye out tonight, let you know if i see him."

He nodded, taking a tentative sip of his coffee. He pulled a disgusted face, the cup clinking hard against the counter as he set it aside.

"This is terrible, Clara," he said. "It has no aroma at all."

Clara frowned in puzzlement and took a sniff of her own drink. "Smells like coffee to me." She watched as he massaged the bridge of his nose in a tired manner. "Could just be you. Have you heard your voice?"

She paused then, lost in thought. That voice of his did strange things to her, made her forget for a moment the older face and grey hair, but tonight it sounded blunted with congestion and cracked with fatigue. Between the sound and the look of him she wondered how he was managing to keep himself upright.

"Well, I don't know about you," Clara said, dumping out both cups and rinsing them, "But I haven't eaten all day and I'm gonna need more than coffee. You hungry?"

She turned and poked him playfully in the ribs. He brought both hands up to protect himself.

"I can't tell," he said.

"Let's take a chance." She pulled a menu from the front of her refrigerator and held it out to him. "Raj's," she said as he studied the menu with an upraised eyebrow and a doubtful look. "They make a great chicken pasanda. It's my favorite."

"Nope," he said, flipping it over. "Can't eat chicken."

"Seriously?" Clara crossed her arms and studied him. "Are you a vegetarian?"

"I'm not sure. But I do know once you've shared a meal with a ruling class of sentient gallus domesticus, makes it a little harder to tuck into anything with chicken."

"Gotcha," Clara said. "Then Tikka Masala is out, too. Vegetable korma? I'm assuming you've never gotten to know a carrot personally."

"I have, but he was a complete prat, so it doesn't matter."

Clara sighed and tried to straighten one leg without disturbing her couchmate. The curry had done the trick of clearing his head and although he'd been temporarily pleased at the return of his wondrous sense of smell, the constant sniffling and blowing had put him in a cranky mood. He'd finally worn himself out, slumping against Clara and falling asleep among the detritus of takeaway trays and crumpled tissues. She didn't miss the complaining in the least but she rather enjoyed the solid weight of him against her and the feel of his head resting on her shoulder.

The guttural snore was less endearing. Clara stretched a hand out, reaching for the throw draped over one arm of the couch. She settled it around him, pulling it up to cover one shoulder. He seemed unaware of her attentions, the rhythm of his breathing unchanged, but he did burrow his head in a little more snugly. She smiled and rubbed her cheek gently across the top of his head, unable to resist the feel of all that riotous hair, softer than it appeared. Not the worst way to spend an evening, she thought.

Clara jumped at the strident sound of her ringtone, her mobile just out of reach on a side table. She wondered if she should let it go to message rather than disturb the sleeping Doctor, but she managed to slide out from underneath without waking him. She nabbed the phone and dove into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

"Hey Danny!" she said, trying to keep her voice low. "Yeah, sorry, bit out of breath, just ran in from outside. What's up?"

She turned at the sound of her bedroom door opening. The Doctor stood watching her, wrapped up tight in his blanket, hair sticking up on one side. Clara shook her head and turned her attention back to her call.

"Nah, just takeaway. Got the korma at Raj's. It was good, you'll have to try it next t…." Clara trailed off as the Doctor began coughing, a deep, chesty, and very loud cough.

She made a slashing movement at her throat with her free hand. "Shut up," she mouthed, pressing her mobile into her chest. He gave a guilty start and used the blanket to muffle the sound, bending forward at the waist.

"Oh, the coughing? Nah, just some medical drama on telly," she said, trying for an unconcerned tone. "Some poor soul dying of tuberculosis." She returned the Doctor's pointed glare at that, motioning him emphatically from the room.

She bounced slightly as he threw himself onto her bed.

"I miss you, too. But it's only for a few days, yeah?" She made a futile attempt to shove the Doctor off the bed. "Okay. Night-night."

Clara blew out an exasperated breath as she ended the call and tossed her mobile aside. "I thought you were sleeping."

"I was," he said. "But I couldn't find you."

"Up," Clara said, rising to her knees on the mattress and trying to lift him by one arm. "Back to the couch. I'm a gracious hostess but you're not sleeping in here tonight."

He turned to his side, pulling away from her and scooting himself upward until he was nearly buried in the pile of pillows at the head of the bed.

"You wouldn't make me sleep on the couch when I'm ill, Clara. I know you better than that. You're too kind-hearted."

"Oh, now you're ill," she said. "When it suits you, suddenly you're ill." She sat down again, admitting defeat.

"Of course I am. All the signs are there. Unmistakable. You should learn to be a little more observant."

She resisted the urge to give him a good thump as he continued. "Besides, this bed has lots of pillows. I didn't know I liked pillows, but I do. Honestly, Clara, how am I supposed to know what I like and what I don't like if you keep hiding things from me?"

"You've slept on pillows before."

"Victorian-era pillows stuffed with horsehair," he reminded her, nose wrinkling at the memory. "I like these. They're soft and they smell nice, like you."

"Hang on," she said. Clara wondered about the state she found her dressing table in at times, all her things moved about, and she was hit with a sudden image of the Doctor seated at the table in her absence, inspecting all the different jars and tubes. "Was that a compliment? You must be delirious."

He made no reply, flattening one pillow with a punch and burying his nose in it. Clara heard a sharp inhale and then a sudden muffled noise.

"Doctor," she said, once again summoning her patient voice. "Tell me you did not just sneeze on my pillow."

"I may have?" he said. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice."

"Well, I did. And you were coughing all over my blanket, too. Are you going to infect everything in my flat before you're well?"

"I'm sorry, Clara," he murmured.

"I give up," she said, standing and moving to the closet, pulling out a spare blanket. "I'll take the couch. I hope you're okay with sleeping in your clothes," she added. "All I have are nightshirts and they would never fit you." She giggled a little at the thought of his knobby knees under a frilly nightshirt. "And don't go wiping your nose on my pillows. There are tissues in the nightstand if you need them."

He remained quiet and Clara leaned over him, pulling his blanket up around his shoulders and placing one hand on his cheek before turning off the bedside lamp.

"Sleep well, Doctor," she whispered. "See you in the morning."

She heard only a soft snore in reply.


	3. Chapter 3

Clara leaned against the doorway, worrying her lower lip between her teeth as she watched the Doctor. He appeared to be resting peacefully, but all the signs of a fitful night were evident; the pillows he claimed to love so much had been tossed from the bed, crumpled tissues were scattered everywhere, and one arm was tangled in a knot of blankets while the other rested across his eyes.

She sighed. She'd lost track of the number of times she'd woken to check on him, the questions and complaints all running together in her mind. What had she been thinking? As soon as she realized he was ill she should have sent him on his way. He wasn't her responsibility, not really, and even at the best of times he complicated her life. But at this moment all she wanted was for her mobile to remain silent and for everyone to stay away from her door. More than anything, she wanted to be alone with him and she had no idea why.

He startled awake, lifting his head from the pillow, eyes searching her out. When he saw her, he let his head fall back with a soft groan. Clara sat lightly on the edge of the bed, trying to give him an encouraging smile but it faltered and she felt her features draw down in a frown of concern. All was silent in the room except for a raspy wheeze as he breathed in and out.

"I feel terrible."

She rested her hand on top of his head, her thumb stroking his forehead gently. "I know."

"Everything hurts, Clara. Why does everything hurt?" He twitched away from her touch. "That's not helping," he said, his tone accusatory. "It's making my hair ache."

"Sorry," she said, clasping her hands in her lap and then tucking the blanket around him tightly. "I think it's just the flu," she said. "It's been going around at school. You remember hypnotizing Atif into believing he had it?"

He shrugged. "He was almost there anyway, I just gave him a nudge in the right direction."

"Probably where you picked it up, then. Almost serves you right."

A troubled look crossed his face. "But I was never susceptible to human illnesses before," he said, "Not that I can remember. Which isn't much, I'll grant you."

"Yeah, well, a lot has changed about you."

"So you keep reminding me."

Clara opened her mouth to reply but stopped when she saw him clutch suddenly at his stomach with one hand. He gave a low, miserable-sounding moan and she leaped to her feet to switch on the bedside lamp.

"Doctor, are you okay?"

"Well, obviously not. I just finished explaining how horrible I feel and…." He trailed off, his eyes widening as his throat worked convulsively

"It's just...you look pale all of a sudden. What am I saying, you always look pale." She bent over to study his face in the light. "You look paler than usual. And kind of green ."

"It's an interesting new development, nothing to worry about." He moaned again and rolled to one side, his arms wrapping around his midsection as he curled into himself.

"Y'know, I really hate it when you use that word, 'interesting.' It's never a good thing."

"It is interesting, though," he said. "Most of the time I don't even realize my stomach is there. It just goes about its business without too much fuss. I'm not sure what's happening to it now."

Realization dawned quickly. A case of the flu and a spicy curry was apparently a bad combination. "Upset stomach, maybe?"

"Is that what you humans call it? This horrible churning and gurgling and sloshing?" He gulped and Clara noticed a faint sheen of sweat beading his forehead. "It isn't upset, it's _furious_. Like nothing wants to stay where it's supposed to."

"Are you going to be sick?"

"I don't know," he said. "I think we're still in negotiations."

He coughed once and Clara made a quick move for the bin at the side of the bed, plunking it down next to him. .

"Lie quietly and take some slow, deep breaths."

He gave a slight nod, mouth turning down in a grimace.

"And If the negotiations fall through," she said, tapping the side of the bin, "Use this, okay? I'll be right back."

Clara moved easily through her kitchen without needing to turn on the light, most of her attention focused on listening for the Doctor. She flinched at a sudden banging on the window and pushed the blinds aside roughly, coming face to face with a fluffy orange tabby.

"Mr. Fluff!" she said, "You scared me to death."

The cat thumped one enormous paw against the glass and yowled.

"If you're looking for the Doctor," Clara said, raising her voice to be heard, "He's here but he's not feeling well tonight."

At this, his yowling increased in volume and he began pacing back and forth on the narrow ledge.

Clara huffed out an impatient sigh and opened the window. "Well, come in then, before you wake the whole building," she said. "But you're not supposed to be here, so don't let anyone see you."

The cat moved past her to the counter where he inspected everything on the surface, including the cup Clara was filling with hot water. His whiskers twitched as he sniffed at the tea bag in her hand.

"It's ginger," she said to him. "The Doctor's feeling a bit sick, thought it might help." She dunked the bag furiously, shaking her head. "Not sure why I'm explaining it to a cat."

Clara paused in her preparations, hand hovering over a flowered canister. "Do you think he takes sugar?" She frowned at this. "Why don't I know how he takes his tea?" At a soft meow, she nodded and added a large spoonful to the cup.

The tabby made a graceful descent to the floor, twining himself around her ankles.

"Be careful, Mr. Fluff," she said, keeping one eye on him as she crossed to the bedroom carrying the tea. "I don't want to spill this on you."

She stopped just before entering the room, giving the cat a gentle nudge with her foot. "He needs to rest," she said. "So just pop your head in and give your report or whatever it is you two do and then you have to go, okay?"

She stepped close to the bed. The Doctor lay very still, breathing shallowly, looking very much like someone trying not to be sick.

"Hiya," she said softly. "How are the peace talks going?"

He spoke through clenched teeth. "I think we've reached a temporary detente."

"Glad to hear it," she said. " I brought you some tea. Think you can manage it?"

"I'll try."

She set the cup aside and held out one hand for him, bracing herself as he pulled himself up. His palms were slick with sweat and his arms trembled as she helped him sit forward. She plumped a pillow and stuffed it behind him.

"There you go," she said with satisfaction. "Now you look comfy."

He gave an irritated snort which ended in a strained fit of coughing.

"Oh, no, that's not good," Clara said when the paroxysm had passed. "You okay?"

"I think so," he managed to croak as he took the cup from her, cradling it between his hands for the warmth. He frowned as it brought it to his face and took a suspicious sniff.

"It's ginger and mint," she said. "It should help settle your stomach."

He glanced over at her. "Are you making this up?"

"Nope. I was a nanny, remember? I know exactly how to take care of children who are ill."

One corner of his mouth quirked in a wry grin. "Thank you very much."

"I didn't mean to compare you to a child," she said quickly. "But I know what I'm doing. So you'll just have to trust me."

His eyes met hers and the emotion she could see in their depths made her catch her breath and look away.

"I trust you," he said quietly.

"Well then, drink up," she said, trying to keep her tone light, still feeling rattled. "You need plenty of fluids. Or I'm assuming you do. Maybe it's different for time lords."

He took a hesitant sip and sighed. Clara saw his shoulders relax and he took a longer drink.

"This is very good."

"Yeah, don't sound so surprised," she said. "I'm not planning on poisoning you any time soon."

As she spoke, the tabby, who had been busily acquainting himself with the room, leaped up to the bed.

"Maxwell," the Doctor said, his face brightening. "It's good to see you."

The cat meowed in a friendly manner as he settled himself comfortably on a pillow. The Doctor ran one long finger over Maxwell's head and the room filled suddenly with loud purring.

"Just a short briefing tonight, eh, Maxwell?" The Doctor said as he set the cup aside and pillowed his head on one arm. "I'm so tired."

Clara smiled at his words. In his previous body he seemed tireless, always in motion, talking or fiddling with things or breaking them off altogether. But in this body, although there were occasional flashes of his old energy, he seemed to fall asleep suddenly. She was growing used to finding him in odd places, as if sleep overtook him with little warning. Often he'd be stretched out in the armchair on the upper level of the TARDIS or sometimes curled up awkwardly on the jump seat in the console room; once she even found him sitting on the floor across from one of his boards, chalk still in hand, one letter trailing off the edge as if he'd collapsed right in the middle of a sentence.

He seemed to have fallen asleep just as quickly this time, one hand resting against Maxwell's head. The cat kneaded his paws in the bedclothes, purring with eyes half-closed as he looked at Clara.

"I'm not gonna disturb him," she said. "So you can stay for now. Don't look so pleased with yourself." She tiptoed over to turn off the lamp. "And keep an eye on him for me, will you?"

* * *

><p>Clara woke to a furry head bumping against her chin. "Maxwell?" She blinked at him, trying to clear her vision. "What's wrong? Did Timmy fall down the well?"<p>

She rolled over and sat up, yawning and rubbing her eyes. "Sorry, stupid joke..and about a dog, too. Give me a minute."

The cat pawed impatiently at her leg and Clara jolted to full awareness immediately.

"Oh god," she said, "It's the Doctor, isn't it?"

She jumped from the couch and hurried toward the bedroom, freezing in the doorway when she saw him. He lay huddled miserably under a blanket, violent shudders racking his body.

"Doctor, it's Clara," she said, going to her knees on the bed beside him. He stared past her at nothing, eyes bright and shimmering in the dim light. Another violent chill shook him and his teeth began chattering. Clara cradled his face with her hands, barely able to hold his head still as he shivered. "Look at me." His eyes focused on hers for a moment but with no recognition.

Her fingers went to the pulse in his neck and instead of a steady double-time beat, the rhythm was erratic, at first too slow, then much too fast, then a single weak and thready pulse.

Clara pressed her hand to her mouth, her own heart pounding in her chest, throat dry with fright. She allowed herself only a few moments of panic then took a deep breath and tried to still her racing thoughts.

"The TARDIS," she said, snapping her fingers. "Hang on, Doctor, I'm going for help."

She flung open the door of the TARDIS and rushed into the console room which sat ominously dark and silent. She chafed her arms with her hands and shivered in the chill air of the room. Her earlier confidence vanished. Never had this familiar space seemed more alien to her.

Clara circled the console, pulling the viewscreen forward, fingers stabbing frantically at the buttons. She tried typing in symptoms, then diseases, but nothing appeared on the screen. She whirled, bracing herself as she raised her voice and addressed the TARDIS. It always made her feel ridiculous doing this, like talking with an imaginary childhood friend.

"I need your help," she said, her voice echoing from the walls. "It's the Doctor. He's really ill and I don't know what to do for him. Does he have medical records or something like that you could show me?"

Clara turned back to the screen, waiting for a response. After a few minutes of silence she tried again. "What about medicine?" she asked. "Is there, I don't know, a pharmacy in here or...or a medicine cabinet? Anything?" She started to pace through the console room, her mind turning over possibilities.

"Books!" she said, as her gaze fell on the numerous shelves encircling the upper level. Clara ran toward the stairs and bounded up them two at a time. "There must be medical books in here somewhere." She hurried along the walkway, trailing her fingers along the spines. She pulled out a few volumes at random, but upon opening them saw only the strange, circular Gallifreyan script on the pages. She let out a cry of frustration.

"Of course!" she shouted. "Only you would have stupid books with no titles! And no writing!" She slammed the volume shut and shoved it back on the shelf. "So how am I supposed to help you?"

In her fear and rage, Clara turned and kicked over a stack of books on the riser. She watched them tumble to the floor below, feeling a faint thrill of satisfaction.

"Get a hold of yourself, Clara Oswald," she said, gripping the handrail until her knuckles whitened. "This isn't helping."

She moved quickly to the TARDIS door. "And you," she said, slamming the flat of her hand against the nearest wall as she exited. "Thanks for nothing."

"Okay, Doctor," she said, muttering to herself as she banged open cabinets and drawers in her bathroom. "Looks like it's just you and me." She retrieved a basin from beneath the sink and gathered all the soft towels and cloths she could find.

"Chills mean a fever means I have to do something to bring it down. And you're really going to hate it." Clara tested the water with her hand and when it was lukewarm, filled the basin and carried it through to the bedroom.

"It's me again," she said, making room on the nightstand for her supplies. As before, the Doctor said nothing, sunk too deep in his own misery to reply. "I think you're running a fever," she said, "And I'm afraid to give you anything for it so it's going to have to be an old-fashioned sponge bath."

Clara soaked a cloth, wrung it out and laid it gently across his forehead. He shuddered violently and made a soft noise of protest. "I'm sorry," she said, wetting another cloth and placing it across his throat. "I know it's uncomfortable, but it's the only way."

She lifted his arms one by one, sliding back the sleeves to bathe and dry his skin, then bit her lip and grasped the edge of his jumper with her fingertips. Before pulling it back, she leaned close to him.

"I'm especially sorry about this," she whispered. "I'm hoping you won't remember." She rolled the jumper up to expose his chest, running the cloth across the concavity of his stomach. He gasped, one hand grabbing at her wrist. "I'm almost done,' she said, gently extricating her wrist from his fingers.

When she finished, Clara snugged the jumper back around him and pulled the blanket up to his chin. His shivering began to fade into an occasional shudder and some of the strain on his face eased. The Doctor's eyes opened, darting frantically around the room until he saw her. He shifted position, trying to move closer to her but unable to in his weakened state.

She took his hand, feeling tears threatening. He made a soft sound in response, at first guttural then rising to a musical trill. She'd never heard anything like it before. And though she didn't understand his words, she understood the tone; questioning, beseeching and underneath it all, she could hear fear in his voice.

She reached for him impulsively then, gathering him as close as she could. "It's okay," she said, tightening her arms around him. "I've got you."

He pressed his face into her stomach, one arm wrapping tightly around her. Clara bent her head to his and nuzzled his hair. The Doctor heaved a ragged and weary sigh that ended in a cough and relaxed against her.

Clara felt a sudden surge of guilt but overriding it was a much stronger sense of tenderness and warmth. She wriggled underneath his weight and repositioned herself until his head was cradled against her shoulder where it fit neatly. She felt his breath against her skin, beginning to slow and deepen, his grip on her loosening as he drifted toward sleep.

"I'm right here, Doctor," she whispered, resting her cheek against the top of his head. "As long as you need me."


	4. Chapter 4

Clara woke to the soft patter of rain against her bedroom window. As muzzy memories began to creep back into her consciousness, she remembered awakening and falling back asleep in a comfortable tangle of arms and legs.

She smiled sleepily and stretched, wondering why the bed felt so cold and empty with no one curled around her, head pressed against her back. Then she gasped and sat up quickly, clutching the blanket to her chest, remembering who had been beside her.

She stumbled from the bed and snagged her dressing gown from the back of a chair, snugging it tightly around her waist before she dared peek her head out of the room. She blew out a sigh of relief when she saw him sitting on the edge of the couch, idly turning a book in his hands, opening it, riffling the pages, then letting it snap shut again.

He was always complaining about her eyes, how huge they were, but she had nothing on him right now as he sat and stared blankly at nothing. She recognized the little wrinkle between his brows that only appeared when he was puzzled or concerned. She cleared her throat and he snapped out of his daze and looked over at her.

"You're awake," she said.

He tried to answer but the only sound he made was a harsh croak that caused him to wince in pain. His eyes followed her as she crossed the room and took a seat next to him.

"Not feeling so well today, huh?" She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead but he quickly brushed it away.

"You're right," she said. "Sorry. The whole 'trying to tell if you're running a fever' thing is kind of a reflex for me now."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, then she heard a sharp intake of breath and saw him scrabble in the pocket of his jacket, withdrawing a crumpled tissue just as a harsh sneeze bent him at the waist.

"Bless," she said. He growled in response, scrubbing at his nose in a irritable manner.

"So grumpy," she said. "You're not a very good patient, are you?" She laughed at his expression. "I wish you could see your face. I can just imagine what you'd be telling me right now if you could talk."

He coughed, and although his voice was hoarse and thin-sounding, he did manage to speak.

"Clara, are you okay?"

"Yes, of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I woke up this morning, or maybe it was this afternoon, it's all running together now, and I was _sleeping_ on you." He swallowed painfully before continuing. "I don't know how you even got into the bed, but I must have mistaken you for one of your pillows." The concern on his face deepened as he turned to look at her. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, of course you didn't."

"Why were we in the same bed, Clara? Did you get lost on the way to the sitting room?"

She stopped and waited when he sneezed again and took quite a long time blowing his nose.

"You were very ill last night," she said when he'd finished and flopped his head against the back of the couch. "And I didn't want to leave you alone. You don't remember?"

"I remember visiting a planet that was completely transparent," he said. "It was marvelous, Clara. You could stand in one spot and see straight through the core of the world to the other side. And all the inhabitants were clear, like they were made of glass; the trees and the plants and the humanoid-sized insects and the six-headed birds." He gave a small smile that quickly disappeared.

"You sure you didn't dream that?'

"I hope not. I'd love to see it again."

"Well, never mind about that now," she said, relief flooding through her at all the things he probably didn't remember of the previous night. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

She stood from the couch and grabbed one of his hands, helping him to his feet.

He straightened slowly, digging one hand into his lower back and groaning. "Don't pull so hard," he complained.

"Come on, let's poke around and see if we can find something," she said, leading the way to the kitchen.

"I'm really not hungry," he said, stumbling after her.

Clara opened her little refrigerator and surveyed the contents. "There's yogurt," she said.

"Yep, saw that. Don't want it."

"But you love yogurt." She looked over her shoulder at him where he stood, arms folded, leaning wearily against the counter. "It's strawberry, your favorite."

He gave a single shake of his head.

"Okay." She closed the door and stood thinking. "Toast? Might not go down so well if your throat is sore, but I could make toast and tea. Does that sound good?"

"I don't want anything."

"You need to eat something, keep your strength up." She bent and rummaged through a lower cabinet. "A bagel? A piece of fruit?"

"I said I don't want anything, Clara, stop plaguing me." He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Why did I shout? You shouldn't make me shout, it gives me a headache and..."

He trailed off in the middle of his sentence, body sagging. With a shuddering inhalation, something caught in his chest and he began to cough. He folded forward, bracing his hands on his legs, giving himself over to it. Clara moved close to him, her hand hovering over his back. He seemed to be back to his usual prickly, untouchable self and she had no wish to startle or annoy him with unwanted contact.

"That's still a nasty cough you've got," she said when he'd recovered.

"It's nothing." He swallowed audibly, eyes widening. "Okay, maybe a little more than nothing."

He began to inch slowly from the room, one hand steadying himself against the counter. "No, no, no, that wasn't good," he moaned. "Not good. My stomach didn't care for that at all. Really don't want to be around food at the moment."

"Let's get you back to bed," she said. "You've gone a terrible color all of a sudden."

He stopped and planted his hands against the doorway of the kitchen. "Why are things moving again, they weren't moving earlier."

"Nothing is moving, Doctor. You're feeling dizzy because you're still ill and you need to rest."

"I'm not going to lie down again," he said. "I'll die of boredom in here."

"Well then, watch some telly or...or read a book.:"

"I've read all of your books."

"You've read all…? How much time have you spent here anyway? Never mind, don't answer that," she said, hoping to change the subject. There were certain titles she fervently hoped he'd skipped.

"Anyway, I'll be fine," he said, attempting an encouraging smile that fell completely flat. "There's a special room in the TARDIS, it's like a healing room. I'll do the whole lying-still thing in there and I'll be fine."

Clara kept one hand near him as he made his way unsteadily toward the sitting room. She winced in sympathy as he misjudged the distance and his body made contact with the corner of the TARDIS.

"You promise you won't try and leave or anything?" she said.

"Of course I won't." He rubbed his arm, fumbling the handle several times before finally managing to open the door. "You go have a wash or whatever it is you do to make yourself presentable."

* * *

><p><em>You're out of kippers. Back soon...ish. The Doctor<em>

Clara removed the note pinned to the corridor wall outside the bathroom and crumpled it. "What the hell?" she asked into the silence, giving the wall a kick. "What do you mean 'out of kippers?' I didn't even know I had kippers to be out of! Is this some kind of Time Lordy secret code or something?"

She pounded on the TARDIS door. It opened at her touch, a blast of chill air rushing out and making her shiver.

"You promised me you wouldn't try to leave," she said, stalking toward him, shaking the balled-up note in her fist. "But you were going to scarper without even saying goodbye, weren't you?"

The Doctor circled the console, keeping a wary eye on her, trying to stay on the opposite side from where she was standing.

"I often do," he said.

"That much is true," she said. Curiosity overcame her anger. "What exactly did you mean, 'I'm out of kippers?'"

"I meant you're out of kippers. Maxwell showed up to collect his fee and I didn't have anything to give him. Quite embarrassing, really."

"Well, give Maxwell my sincere apologies." Clara leaned close to the console controls, trying to decipher the settings. "Where were you really going?"

"Not sure, somewhere warm. I was hoping to find a place with six or seven suns...maybe a supernova." She saw a violent shiver chase itself along his back as he pulled down on the double handles.

Clara and the Doctor both looked up expecting the whir and movement of the time rotor but it remained still. Muttering something under his breath and muffling a cough into his sleeve, he made a few more adjustments.

"The TARDIS is almost completely offline," he said. "Translation circuits are working again but the data banks and navigation are still inoperable. I've been trying to bring everything up manually but she's being stubborn."

"Maybe she thinks you should stay here."

He tucked his hands deeply into his pockets as he shuddered again. "Maybe you both need to mind your own business."

Clara blew out an exasperated sigh. "You have a lot in common with your TARDIS, did you know that? You are ill. Stop being so stubborn and come back to my flat and let me take care of you."

"I don't need anyone to take care of me," he said, although his slumped posture suggested otherwise.

"Well, obviously you do. You're running a fever again and you won't even sit down."

He gave an impatient huff and stomped down the stairs to the tiny study under the console room. Clara leaned over the railing and peered down at him.

"What are you doing now?"

"Trying to find my sonic screwdriver," he called up to her. "Will you check my chair on the upper level? I seem to remember having it up there."

"Fine." Clara kneeled by the chair, using her fingers to gingerly dig around between the frame and the cushion. "Ugh, I think I found a used handkerchief," she said, mouth twisting in a grimace. Then her fingers closed on the sonic. "Got it!"

He moved to the bottom of the risers. "Do you know how to change the settings?"

"Yep, think so."

"Use setting 28," he said. "No, wait, that's for a Silurian." He thought for a moment. "It's setting 27a, a head to toe scan, starting at the head. Understand?"

She nodded and wrapped both hands around the sonic, carefully directing the beam over his body. The scan took seconds to complete.

"Excellent, Clara. Bring it here, let me see it." He pressed a button on the side, brow furrowing as he studied the readings. "Scan within normal parameters, well done," he muttered.

"And?" She craned her neck to try to decipher the information.

"And the numbers are completely off." The Doctor stuffed the sonic in his pocket and sank into the chair. "Never let a human near advanced technology. They'll always mess it up."

"Wait a minute," she said. "Didn't you just tell me the scan fell within normal parameters? So I didn't mess it up."

"But it couldn't be right," he insisted. "My core temperature shouldn't be that high. And it shows I have a viral infection, influenza type..." He took the sonic out again, fingers tracing the case. "...Type B, with an expected course of four days."

"None of this is news, Doctor."

He sighed. "If it's true, it's a little disappointing."

Clara laughed at his woebegone expression. "Don't tell me you're sorry you don't have a more exotic illness?"

"Human flu virus with single-stranded RNA? That's not much of a challenge. Normally that would be child's play for my immune system."

"Yeah, should've thought of that before you went deep cover in a school. It's inevitable, you hang around kids long enough. They're walking Petri dishes." She rested one hand on his shoulder. "Now will you please come back to my flat? It's freezing in here."

* * *

><p>"You're going to sit right here and you're going to rest and watch a bunch of crap telly," Clara said, guiding him toward the couch. "And if you try to move, you'll answer to me, got it?"<p>

"But you're a young woman," he said. "Weekend on your own, you could meet up with your friends, go out for drinks, catch a show. You don't need me hanging around here and getting in your way."

If Clara didn't know better, she would have thought she saw a brief wistful look cross his face before the grumpy expression returned.

"Are you kidding?" she said. "It's raining outside. I have marking to finish and for some reason, I feel completely exhausted." She shook out the blankets that lay tangled on the floor. "I'm not going anywhere. Now sit."

She didn't know why she was doing this, making him comfortable on her couch, trying to convince him to stay, except she liked having him in her flat, liked the solid presence of the TARDIS in her sitting room and his cantankerous but oddly enjoyable company.

"Clara," he said. "There's something I need to tell you."

"Tell me then," she said, tucking the blankets snugly around him.

"After I tell you, you may not want me to stay." He was clearly uncomfortable, unwilling to look at her, hands fidgeting with the ties of her favorite quilt. His expression was so grave, Clara felt her heart pick up speed in response.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense."

"I ran a scan on you, too." He still refused to meet her eyes.

"And?"

"It's nothing to worry about," he said. "But there's a slight possibility you may have contracted this flu somehow."

"_Somehow?" _She gave a bitter laugh. "I don't see how I could have possibly avoided it with you coughing and sneezing all over everything." She sank to the couch next to him and held her hand out. "Show me."

He sheepishly handed over the sonic. Clara gaped at it for a moment before speaking.

"This is not a 'slight possibility,' Doctor. It says I have a 99.998% probablility of infection." She tossed the sonic back into his lap. "Well, that's brilliant. Can't thank you enough. Really."

"Incubation period is three days, give or take a day," he said, sounding hopeful. "You'll have time to prepare. "

"Yeah, but I can't really call out of work pre-emptively, can I?" She ran a hand across her forehead. No wonder she was feeling so weary.

"I'm sorry, Clara," he said. "I should have stayed away but I was sick and confused and all I could think of was getting to you." His voice caught slightly and she turned her head to look at him. "I knew you'd help me."

"Oi, c'mere you," she said, turning toward him and ducking her head under his chin. "It's okay."

She rested her hands against his chest, smiling as she felt him relax under her touch. He might be cranky and feverish and out of sorts but the rapid double-time beat of both hearts reassured her. They sat in comfortable silence for a while until a thought struck her.

"Three days, did you say?"

She felt the rumble of his voice against her cheek. "Give or take a day," he said.

"Well then, while I still feel like eating," she said, "I'm going to go buy the most disgustingly decadent cup of coffee I can find, with syrup and whipped cream and sprinkles. Maybe I'll live dangerously and get a pastry, too." She stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder. "You'll be here when I get back?"

He nodded sleepily, eyes already beginning to drift shut. She bent and placed a gentle kiss on top of his head.

"You better be."

_**A/N Yes, I know Dark Water and Death in Heaven happened but I'm going to keep pretending they're in Clara's flat being all domestic and snuggly. Don't look at me.**_


	5. Chapter 5

Clara shivered as she walked carefully down the steps, pulling her cardigan a little more tightly around herself. The Doctor was sitting at his desk on the lower level of the TARDIS, book open in front of him, fingers splayed out on the pages, head propped up in one hand. She could tell from the set of his shoulders and the way he slouched in his chair that he still wasn't feeling well and she regretted her harsh words of the night before.

"Doctor?"

His head slipped from his hand as he startled awake. Clara smiled at this.

"Didn't think you were reading," she said. "The snoring gave it away."

He did not turn to look at her and didn't speak, his movements slow and deliberate as he marked his place and added the book to a teetering stack next to the lamp. Clara wanted to wrap her arms around him from behind, lay her head against him and apologize for being cranky and unfair but she knew it wouldn't be well received. She rested her hand on his back instead, one thumb stroking the fabric of his hooded jacket.

"You've changed," she said.

"Please, Clara, not this again." He huffed out an impatient sigh and pushed himself slowly from his desk. "Yes, I've changed. It's time you got used to it."

"No, no, I mean your clothes," Clara said quickly. "You've changed clothes."

He glanced down at himself. "So I have." He turned and gave her a head-to-toe appraising glance. "And what about you? Do you always get dressed up to stay home?"

"No, of course not." She fastened her cardigan to the top button, fingers moving clumsily. It was so chilly she could see her breath. "I'm leaving in a few minutes, I wanted to check on you first."

"You're going to work? But the last time I scanned you…"

"I know what it said, you were waving the sonic right under my nose all night." Clara felt herself growing irritated again and tried to soften her tone. "But honestly, I feel fine. I can't call out just because I might start feeling poorly later; it's difficult finding someone to cover classes on a Monday morning. Plus there's an important assembly this afternoon."

He nodded and brushed past her, ascending the steps to the console room. She followed, her legs feeling leaden and achy.

"Going somewhere?" she asked as she joined him at the console, trying to keep her tone light.

He made a noncommittal noise, his fingers moving rapidly over the keypad.

"You sure you're up to it? Last night was kind of rough...you didn't sound well at all."

He gave her a sidelong look and then turned his attention to the viewscreen. Clara studied him in profile, his mouth drawn down, brow furrowed. He didn't seem angry. She'd seen angry on him before and it didn't look like this. She'd hurt his feelings.

"Nothing for you to worry about, Clara,' he said finally, his words sounding clipped and harsh.

"I'm sorry if I upset you," she said. "I didn't mean it."

"I'm not upset, Clara," he said. "I'm trying to stay out of your way, just as you asked me to."

"You know, I could get in touch with your otter family if you need a good sulk," she said. "Maybe they saved your room for you."

He continued to turn dials and adjust settings without looking at her. "Toddle off to work, Clara," he said. "Impressionable young minds to mold and all that."

Clara sighed. She hated to leave it like this but she really didn't feel like coaxing him out of his mood. She rested one hand on his briefly. "Take care of yourself," she said before she turned and left.

* * *

><p>Clara leaned against the corridor wall outside her flat. There were approximately twenty more steps to her front door, then she could stagger into the bedroom, fall face first on the bed and sleep until she felt better, maybe for a month.<p>

She shouldn't have tried to go to work. She should have listened to the Doctor. He'd warned her how quickly the virus was replicating, how brisk her immune response was, how soon she'd be feeling the effects, but she'd thrown a pillow at him and sent him to the TARDIS. No wonder he'd been hurt. He'd only been trying to help in his own infuriating way.

She took a few more stumbling steps toward her flat, then reached out a hand to brace herself. She wished they'd left each other on better terms this morning. Hopefully he'd found a lovely planet somewhere with a sunwashed beach and was stretched out, basking in the warmth. Clara smiled despite her own growing misery. It sounded lovely. She closed her eyes, imagining she could hear the gentle lapping of the waves, the cry of some kind of exotic bird, could feel the sun warming every inch of her.

She began to slide along the wall and caught herself. No sleeping until she was inside. When she reached her door she fumbled her keys in the lock and stepped inside, shivering and coughing painfully as she made her way toward the kitchen. She was well and truly ill now, she could feel it in her aching bones and in her throbbing head.

Clara tossed her mobile to the counter and grabbed the first thing she could find to drink. She considered chugging the orange juice straight from the container to save energy, but reconsidered and took down a glass, filling it and sipping at it carefully as she staggered into her bedroom.

She wandered around removing her work clothes, letting them fall to the floor haphazardly. She didn't care about wrinkles or ruined stockings or scuffs on her shoes. She craved cozy and warm and she needed it now; her flannel sleep pants, an oversized long-sleeve shirt, fuzzy socks. She froze when she spotted the Doctor's holey jumper lying neatly over the back of her chair, almost as if it had been left for her.

Her fingers twitched for a moment as she considered whether or not to take it and then she snatched the jumper up, pulling it over her head and burying her face in the soft, nubby fabric. Through her stuffy nose she thought she detected a faint trace of his familiar scent , earthen green woods and the air after a rain, and she took a shuddering breath, tears threatening. She wanted him here.

Clara shook her head impatiently, dashing at her eyes with one hand. He wasn't here and there was no use wishing for it. She was ill, feeling over-emotional and an evening of rubbish telly and a nap on the couch would take care of it. She wandered into the sitting room and stopped short, her heart hammering hard in her chest.

The TARDIS was sitting in its usual spot, taking up much of the space in the room and blocking the television. She moved toward it quickly, half-afraid it might dematerialize in front of her. She barely had her head in the door before she was calling out for him.

"Doctor?" she said, her voice cracking painfully. She smothered a cough in her sleeve. Okay, maybe she wouldn't shout for him again, just look around a bit.

She edged around the console, intent on the door at the far end of the space. Her room on the TARDIS was nearby, except she never knew exactly how to find it. Usually she'd walk along with the idea of it in her mind and would be seized with the sudden notion that she should veer down the corridor to her right or head down a flight of steps to the left. Its location changed depending on the mood of the TARDIS and she hoped it was close. Her arms and legs felt like lead weights pulling her down and she needed to find a place to rest soon.

And then it was there, tickling her mind, the idea that she needed to make a left at the next bend in the corridor and walk straight ahead. She stood in the doorway that appeared, blinking blearily. It wasn't the room she'd been expecting, the one with the floral duvet and overstuffed chair. Instead Clara was standing in a vast room, done all in silver and grey and metallic tones, the only illumination tiny twinkling lights around the perimeter of the ceiling high above her head. Much of the space was taken up with an enormous bed, its surface so plush she thought she'd likely sink three or four inches deep if she crawled in.

As she glanced around, mouth open, Clara sensed someone else in the room. A figure rose from a chair tucked away in a darkened corner and she heard slow, measured footsteps approaching.

"Doctor," she said, when she recognized him. "Is this your room?"

"It appears to be, yes." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked around, one eyebrow raised. "What do you think of it?"

Her first impression remained: severe, almost industrial on the surface, but promising comfort and ease despite its appearance.

"I think it suits you," she said. "But why did you sleep on my couch if you have this?'

He shrugged. "Couldn't find it until today." He perched uneasily on the edge of the bed. "And now it won't let me leave. I try, but then I get turned around and end up right back here every time."

"I guess the TARDIS knows you need to rest."

Clara passed a trembling hand across her face. Why did the room suddenly feel so hot and why was everything undulating in a slow sickening wave around her? She reached a hand behind herself, then in front, searching for anything solid to lean against. She staggered to one side and then she was falling, feeling herself gathered up in strong arms and set down gently in the center of the bed, a soft duvet floating around her. She closed her eyes against the wooziness, the surface of the bed rolling underneath her like the deck of a ship.

* * *

><p>Clara woke suddenly, head throbbing, eyes feeling like cinders smoldering in the sockets. How long had she been sleeping? She rolled over and eased her way toward the edge, reaching out one foot carefully but only encountering more bed.<p>

"How big is this thing anyway?" Clara muttered. "How much sleeping room does one time lord who doesn't actually sleep all that much need?"

She reached the edge of the mattress, untangled herself from the blankets and stepped down. She winced at the sensation of her feet hitting the floor. She'd have to walk carefully or she would jar something loose in her head and that wouldn't do at all. She wavered and felt a solid, steadying presence beside her.

"What are you doing out of bed?" The Doctor's tone was gently reproving. "You're ill."

"Water," she said groggily, leaning her head against him. "And...and paracetamol. And maybe something to kill myself with, and my mobile. I think I left it in the kitchen." Her eyes flew open at that. "Oh god, that's right. I thought I heard a text come in, but how could I? Anyway, very important, need to get to the kitchen, excuse me."

"Lie down," he said. It took only a gentle push to send Clara crashing back to the bed like a felled tree. "I'll fetch everything, though I'm not promising I'll be able to find my way back again."

"That was fast," Clara said when he returned a few minutes later carrying a glass glistening with condensation and the bottle of paracetamol. "Did you leave a trail of bread crumbs?"

He retrieved her mobile from his pocket as Clara sat up and swallowed a few tablets with a mouthful of cold water.

"What are you doing?" she said, setting the glass aside and holding out a hand for her phone. "Those are private."

"P.E.," he said, thumbing through the messages. "P.E. again. And again." He was unable to keep an impatient look from his face. "Five texts, Clara. He's a little needy, wouldn't you say?"

"Five? Let me have that." She scrolled the messages quickly. "Oh, no. No no no. He wants to come by after maths club, which is..." She checked the timestamp and groaned. "..._was_ thirty minutes ago. He's on his way over right now."

"Shouldn't you be happy about that?"

Clara clenched her phone tightly and buried her head in her hands. "Yes," she said. "No. I don't know. It's just...I think he's probably going to be all affectionate and clingy and I can't stand that. I don't want someone fussing over me when I'm ill."

She lifted her head and punched in a quick text, chewing at her lower lip while she waited for a reply. "Nothing," she said, sighing and tossing her mobile to one side.

"Do you want him here on not?" the Doctor asked in a soft voice. His expression was unreadable but something in his eyes forced her to be honest with him.

"No, I don't."

"I'll take care of it," he said.

"Wait," she called after him. "What are you going to do?" She had visions of him meeting Danny at the door, arguing, sending him away. She might as well write off the whole relationship if that happened.

"Leave it to me, Clara."

* * *

><p>The next time she awoke, the room was dark, the only sound the low ambient hum of the TARDIS. She felt strong fingers stroking her brow and turned toward the sensation. The Doctor's voice was nearly a whisper as he spoke.<p>

"Is this how you do it?"

"Do what?"

"The comforting thing."

"Yeah, not quite so emphatic if you don't mind," Clara said. "My head is still killing me."

At that the pressure lessened and his touch was nothing more than a gentle caress, hand moving to trace the contours of her head, long fingers weaving into the ends of her hair.

She was silent for a moment, relaxing under his touch, and then curiosity overcame her.

"Why?" she asked.

His hand stilled. "Why what?"

"The comforting thing. Why are you doing it?"

"You were moaning in your sleep. Or maybe it was meowing, I couldn't tell. You were making some kind of distressing noise and I thought it would help. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Clara said. "Actually feels really nice."

"Yep, I didn't mind it either."

She turned her head slightly. It was hard to see him in the gloom but he was sitting next to the bed, shoulders slumped, lips pursed in a frown.

"You look tired," she said.

"Flatterer."

No, I mean it," she said. "You don't look well. And I know you're still feeling ill, no matter what you say. "

He did not deny it. She rolled over to face him and pushed herself up on one elbow. He would not meet her eyes.

"Doctor," she said, "You need to rest. Will you lie down with me?"

"I can't, Clara," he said, in a voice so weary that her stomach clenched in sympathy.

And suddenly she wanted nothing more than him beside her in this expansive bed. She wanted to feel that same comfortable tangle of arms and legs, wanted to be gathered up in his arms, protected from the world. She knew he wanted it, too. He so seldom let the mask slip but she could see it in his eyes, the longing on his face. She reached out for his hand and he grasped hers tightly in return.

"I'm asking you," she said. She moved over to make room for him, patting the space next to her, inviting him in. "Please."

He stood quickly and Clara sighed. She'd pushed too hard and he was going to turn his back and walk away, leaving her by herself again. But instead he bent to remove his boots and sank down on the edge of the bed.

"Are you sure, Clara?" He spoke quietly without looking at her, his tone somber. "You're not delirious? You're not going to shout at me to be quiet or to leave you alone? You're not going to throw my sonic screwdriver across the room or toss a pillow at my head or suddenly decide you need Danny here? You have to tell me now because I _am_ tired and I _do_ want to lie down with you, but you need to let me know if I'll regret it."

She reached out toward him, placed a hand on his back, felt him stiffen under her touch. "You won't regret it, Doctor," she said. "I want you here."

He nodded and stretched out next to her, clearly ill at ease, hands bunched in the pocket of his hooded jacket, legs crossed at the ankles, not relaxed, not comfortable. Clara lay on her side watching him, easing slowly toward him. The one time he'd curled up with her he'd been half out of his head with fever, didn't know what he was doing. Maybe this was a mistake. She edged a little closer, saw him shoot a sideways glance at her, his manner telling her to keep her distance for a bit.

"Are you cold?"

Without waiting for an answer, she gently tossed part of the quilt to cover him. He made no move to pull it up, lying still and staring up at the ceiling. Clara moved as close as she dared, resting her chin on his shoulder, wanting to feel his arms around her but knowing this would have to be enough. She couldn't ask more of him than he was willing to give.

She heard a sharp intake of breath and he turned to his side, sitting up as a sudden fit of coughing overtook him. The coughs were deep, rattling in his chest, shaking his thin frame and Clara encircled him with her arms as it overtook him. His hands came up and grasped her arm tightly, whether for comfort or to brace himself, Clara couldn't tell.

When the paroxysm passed, he sank back down to the bed with her still wrapped around him. She rested her head against his chest, listening to his breath wheeze in and out as he recovered.

"We're a pair, aren't we?" she said. He made a soft noise and turned toward her, resting his head near hers on the pillow.

Clara's eyes flew open at the sound of her ringtone nearby.

"You should get that," the Doctor mumbled. "That'll be Danny."

"Danny?" Clara fumbled her phone from under her pillow. Sure enough. She turned to her other side as she accepted the call.

"Hey you," she said. She felt the Doctor press himself against her, front to back, one arm gathering her up closely.

"Yeah, I do sound awful, thanks."

At the feel of the Doctor's hand against her stomach, Clara sucked in a deep breath and tried to keep her voice from wobbling. "Just the flu that's been going around." She tried to concentrate on what Danny was telling her. "It's fine, really. It must be important or his parents wouldn't have asked to meet with you tonight."

The Doctor buried his nose in her hair and Clara closed her eyes. "No, it's getting late," she told Danny. "Go on home when you've finished. I'm already in bed and I'm staying here. Doctor's orders."

**(A/N: This will be the only time in the many years I've been writing fan fiction that I will ask my readers to be kind. Chapter Five was completed two weeks ago, lost after the failure of a jump drive and rewritten painstakingly while sitting around doctor's offices, a hospital and then a nursing home. This is the end of the domesticity but I'm not marking it complete yet. I could always park them on the couch together for some more recovery time if you'd like. Let me know and thanks for reading/reviewing/favoriting.)**


	6. Chapter 6

"Morning, sleepyhead."

The gruff voice came from the foot of the bed where Clara was just beginning to wake up. She yawned and stretched.

"Morning." She sat slowly, drawing the blanket around her. "You're up early. Or late. I can never tell in here. What time is it, anyway?"

"No idea. I was guessing. Could be afternoon."

She patted the blankets and then stuck her hand under her pillow. "Have you seen…?"

The Doctor reached into the pocket of his jacket and tossed her mobile over. Clara caught it in one hand and checked the screen.

"Oh god, it's...Wednesday? I've been in here…" She stopped to do a quick mental calculation. "...two days? I don't even want to think about the messages I've missed." She tossed the blanket back and scooted out of bed.

"Take it easy," he said. "I had to pick you up off the floor one night when you stood too quickly and I'd rather not do it again."

She bounced on her feet, testing her balance. "I feel fine," she said. "Did you really have to pick me up?"

"Yes." He edged around a massive desk that barely fit into a corner of the room. "Don't worry about your messages. Adrian had a question about your Wuthering Heights lesson plan and we discussed it. Nice chap. And P.E. has called several times, feels quite guilty about not being able to visit you, but he's a busy man. Chess club tonight, I think."

Clara stopped scrolling to give him an incredulous look. "You've been snooping through my mobile?"

"Not snooping," he said. "Managing your affairs while you've been otherwise occupied with sleeping or complaining or making me fetch tea and blankets."

"I can manage my own affairs, thank you," she said crisply, sending off a few return texts before pocketing her mobile.

"If you say so." He set down a rolled paper bag he'd been carrying.

Clara turned to the bed and began to straighten it. The idea of lying around for another day held no appeal. She plumped the pillows and shook out the covers, folding and smoothing them as best she could. How many blankets had she used, anyway? And they could all do with a wash. She pulled the last one free from the pile.

"My gran's quilt,' she said in wonderment as her fingers closed on its familiar weight. "How did this get here?"

Before he could answer, Clara had a sudden clear memory. She'd felt miserable; feverish and fretful, almost tearful. She remembered asking for the quilt and for him to stay with her, please. And he did. She'd slept fitfully between fever dreams and waking felt like surfacing from deep underwater. All night, it was his hands reaching out for her, his concerned eyes searching her face until she could tell him yes, she was okay, no, she didn't need anything. When she could no longer stay awake, she'd turn toward him, feeling his warmth as he gathered her up, pushing fever-damp hair back from her face and then she would be gone again, sinking back under as he murmured comforting words.

Clara gathered the quilt in both arms, holding it close to her chest. Her hand stroked the warm, fuzzy fabric as she thought of how comforting his presence had been. He seemed different this morning, those formidable barriers back in place. Had she just dreamed it all? Belatedly, she became aware of a question hanging in the air between them.

"Sorry," she said, turning to face him. "Did you say something?"

"I asked how you're feeling," he said, frowning as he unrolled the top of the bag.

"Oh." She folded the quilt neatly and placed it at the edge of the bed. "Better, I think."

"You don't sound it. Have you heard yourself?"

"Didn't have to. Been listening to you," she said. "Y'know, between the congestion and your accent, for a while I thought I was gonna need subtitles to understand you."

She moved near him, touching her hand lightly to his back as she tried to look over his shoulder. Papers covered the desktop, all filled with that strange circular writing she recognized from some of his books. A notebook, a dog-eared paperback and several pens were scattered haphazardly across the surface.

"You moved your desk in."

He shrugged. "The TARDIS moved my desk in. She knew I was bored."

Clara's eyes fell on a pile of envelopes, fliers and glossy catalogs, all bundled neatly, in complete contrast to the desk's disarray.

"Is that my post?" she asked, picking up the stack.

"Yep, been bringing it in for you, in case there was anything important."

"I doubt that." Clara flipped through it quickly. "Ugh, boring," she said. "Bills and adverts and boring stuff."

"New issue of _Look_, though."

"Oh yeah?" She tucked one leg underneath herself as she took a seat at the desk, paging through the magazine. "This looks like an interesting article," she said, turning it to face him.

The Doctor said nothing as he lifted two polystyrene cups from the bag, setting one in front of her.

"'Ten Ways to Take Ten Years Off Your Face,'" Clara said. She studied him for a moment as he pretended not to notice. "How do you feel about moisturizer and essential oils?"

He turned, snapping the magazine from her fingers and tossing it aside. "How do you feel about tom kha gai?" he asked in a low growl.

"That depends," she said. "Who or what is tom kah gai?

"It's soup," he explained, handing her a spoon. "Chicken, coconut and lemongrass."

"Sounds yummy," she said, opening the lid and inhaling the fragrant steam. "So did you pop off in the TARDIS to ancient Thailand and bribe King Rama's cook for his recipe and then harvest all the ingredients and spend hours preparing it?"

He turned his own cup to show her the logo on the side. "No, I walked two blocks to the Royal Orchid. But your story is much more exciting. Let's go with that one."

He perched on the edge of a low chair, all elbows and knees, trying to balance everything in his hands. Clara hid a smile because he looked so grumpy about it all.

"I thought you didn't eat chicken because of some kind of moral objection," she said.

"I'm sharing."

"Sharing?" She looked toward the door. "Oh look, it's Maxwell. Good-o."

The tabby made a neat leap to the surface of the desk, pushing his head against her hand in greeting. Clara really didn't consider herself a pet kind of person but couldn't resist ruffling the soft tufts behind his ears.

"Aren't you a handsome boy?" she cooed. "Look at all that lovely ginger fur, so fluffy." She ran her fingers along the top of Maxwell's head to an answering purr.

Clara could feel the Doctor's attention drawn to her hands as she stroked Maxwell.

"I'm starting to get a headache, I think," he said, rolling his shoulders. "It was a very long walk to the restaurant."

"I thought you said it was two blocks."

"Seemed longer somehow."

"Please tell me you're not jealous of a cat," she said. "I'm not petting you if that's what you're getting at."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Clara offering pieces of chicken to Maxwell which he accepted and ate daintily.

"He travels with you, then?" she asked.

"Not often," he said. "Short hops here and there. Always a lap cat, this one. He prefers a domestic life." The Doctor held out a sliver of chicken which Maxwell sniffed carefully before eating. "You're on your third regeneration, aren't you?" At Maxwell's hoarse meow, the Doctor corrected himself. "Sorry, fourth. Black alley cat during the Blitz, ginger and white during the London Olympics, Himalayan lapcat and now ginger and white again. It hardly seems fair."

"Hmmm?" Clara slurped up a mushroom, only half-listening.

"My hair," he explained. "Maxwell has been ginger twice and I haven't, even after all these regenerations."

"You wanted to be ginger?" She had no idea he'd even thought about his hair. He'd only ever mentioned his kidneys once and the rest of his appearance usually went without comment. "Maybe you were ginger before you went grey?"

"Do you think so?" His voice sounded hopeful.

Clara set her cup aside and leaned forward to look closely at him. He fidgeted uncomfortably under her scrutiny.

"Bend your head forward." She carded her fingers through his curls. "Maybe not," she said, running a hand across the nape of his neck. "Your hair's still very dark right here. No ginger, I'm afraid."

"Ah well, there's always next time."

She frowned, considering it. She was still getting used to this new appearance. She didn't even want to think about another change.

"Clara, you do realize you just petted me," he said, sounding rather smug.

"Yeah, didn't hear you purring, though, so don't expect it again." Clara snapped the lid back on the cup and dropped it into the bag. "Thanks for lunch," she said. She stood and gave a luxurious stretch. "And now I desperately need a shower."

"I didn't like to say anything, but yes, you do."

"Come on, it can't be that bad," Clara said, lifting the neck of the jumper to her face to take a tentative sniff. The wool tickled her nose and she turned away to muffle a sneeze.

Maxwell paused in washing his face to meow in response.

"Thank you, Maxwell," she said, sniffling a little. "At least someone around here remembers their manners."

"I have perfect manners, Clara."

She scoffed. "Yeah, not so much. Isn't it customary to say something after someone sneezes?"

"Is it?" He took her vacated seat at the desk. "Because I don't remember you saying anything after I sneezed except 'don't wipe your nose on the pillows,' or 'shut up,' if you were feeling particularly rude."

Clara folded her arms, watching as he pulled a fresh piece of paper from a hidden cubby and chose a pen. "I'm waiting," she said.

"Well, what do you want me to say? How about, 'For a tiny person, you are remarkably loud.'"

"No, not an insult. You're supposed to say something nice, like 'gesundheit' or 'bless you.'"

"Seriously, though, you _are_ very loud," he said. "I thought I heard it echo in here."

"You know what, you're right. Never mind. It's not important." Clara turned to leave but stopped when her mobile chimed suddenly. She rolled her eyes as she removed it from her pocket.

"Deputy headmistress," she said, quickly typing in a message. "Wanting to know when I plan to return." Her thumb hesitated over the 'send' button. " I've been meaning to ask you about that."

The Doctor looked up from his notes, eyebrows drawn together in puzzlement. "Isn't that your decision?"

"It's just...I got my flu jab this year," she said. "I always do, but I still caught your flu."

"Antigenic drift," he said. "Usually it's more of a gradual process, but exposure to unfamiliar genetic material must have accelerated the mutation in surface proteins of the virus. So it's not surprising that the antibodies produced from the flu vaccine weren't…."

"Yeah," she said, holding up a hand to stop him. "English teacher?" Then what he told her began to sink in. "Oh god, you've started some...some kind of mutated alien flu pandemic and I'm patient zero."

"Don't be ridiculous. Type B never causes a pandemic. And whatever this particular strain is, it doesn't seem too virulent for humans."

"Then I'm safe to go back to school? I really don't have an excuse to stay out now I'm feeling better but I don't want to risk passing it on to the kids."

The Doctor patted his pockets until he found his sonic screwdriver and then scanned her quickly.

"Virus is still active," he said. "So you should limit your exposure to anyone for a few more days, just in case. No going out and no canoodling with P.E."

Clara smiled wryly. "No chance of that. Between parents' meetings and maths club and the chess team he's been busy every night." She was surprised to find she didn't mind all that much. "What about you traipsing all over town when you're still ill? No telling how many people you infected today just fetching soup."

"I'm not contagious," he said, turning his attention back to his notes. "Now it's just an annoying cough."

"You can say that again."

"Oh yes, do go on about how annoying I am, Clara, because the noises you make are so delightful. I'm particularly fond of the bleating sound whenever you blow your nose." He did such an uncanny imitation she had to laugh.

"Shut up, I know," she said. "So, what are you working on, anyway?" She leaned over his shoulder, fascinated with his strange, indecipherable writing. It was nearly hypnotic to watch.

He made a few more careful marks before replying. "Nothing important."

"Hmmm. Looks important. And there certainly is a lot of it."

She picked up a page and he quickly snatched it back.

"Do you mind? There is a certain order to everything."

"Could've fooled me." She let the paper float back to the desk surface.

"Don't you have something else to do?" he asked.

"Nope."

"You could read."

"Nah."

"Or watch one of those ridiculously sentimental movies you love."

"Not in the mood."

"Weren't you going to have a shower?"

"Later."

He threw down his pen, squeezing his eyes shut and massaging his temples in a tired manner. "You're bored," he said.

Well, of course I'm bored. Aren't you?"

"Have been for days." He stood and pointed toward the door. "Console room. Now."

Clara ran out of the room eagerly, feeling a sense of growing excitement. "Are we going somewhere, Doctor?" she called over her shoulder.

She froze in the doorway. The low hum of the TARDIS sounded louder to her ears, the lights no longer dimmed and the air itself felt different, charged with electricity. "We are," she breathed.

"There is a place I've been wanting to take you," he admitted. "But I wasn't sure if you were up to it yet."

Clara followed him around the console, watching him punch buttons and turn dials. "I am," she said. "I really am. Tell me about it?"

"This planet," he said, "It's nearly all water. And you've never laid eyes on an ocean like this, Clara. The waters look like an aurora, all ripples of azure and magenta and emerald, constantly shifting."

She watched him as he spoke, his face appearing younger in his excitement. She thought again how much she loved his smile. Not the wide manic grin but the genuine smile that nearly closed his eyes, long lashes lowering close to his cheeks. He was smiling at her now and she closed her eyes against the sudden and unexpected urge to take his head in her hands and kiss him.

"The world has a binary solar system," he said. "And the two suns do a slow elliptical dance around each other as the day passes. At sunset, when the fading light strikes the surface of the waves, it looks like jewels tumbling over the beach."

Clara sensed him drawing nearer to her, his voice lowering as he continued talking about the soft, warm sand and the sweet scent of the air. His hands touched her wrists gently and she sucked in a breath as he pushed back her sleeves, his fingers tracing interconnected circular patterns against her skin. Clara shivered from the sensation, certain that her mind shouldn't be wandering where it seemed determined to, wondering what those fingers would feel like woven into her hair, brushing against her stomach, gripping her hips...

At that, her eyes shot open and she pushed herself away, whirling from him and pretending to study the viewscreen to hide her burning cheeks. "It sounds gorgeous," she said, trying hard to keep her voice from quavering. "When did you see it?"

"I don't remember. One of those solo trips when you were busy with your other life."

Her other life. Clara shook her head. She was having so much trouble caring about any of it lately. It seemed a separate existence from where she stood now, just her and her Doctor and the universe waiting to be taken. How could anything else ever compare?

She ran her thumb over an imaginary smudge on one of the levers, trying to gather her thoughts. He moved close again, stilling her hand with his. She held her breath, waiting for him to speak.

"When I'm alone and I see something wonderful, I always think, "Clara would love this," or "Clara should be here." He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, fingertips lingering against her skin. "So what do you say? Will you come with me?"

"Yes." She spoke without hesitation. "Yes, of course I will." Because as much as she wanted to watch the suns dance and dig her toes into the velvety sand and drift her hands through the jeweled water as it rolled warm and slick over her fingers, what she wanted most was to be at his side no matter what happened.

"My Clara," he said, his voice warm as he treated her to another of his smiles. "Are you ready?"

"Always, Doctor," she said, returning his grin. "Let's go."

* * *

><p><strong>(And that's all! Thanks for sticking around and reading and favoriting and reviewing; it was so much fun to write. I'll be disappearing for a while thanks to a bunch of Secret Santa obligations, but I might pop up after the holidays if anyone has an interesting prompt to throw my way.)<strong>


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